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Your Words
Sing beautifully
in my silent room
touching every
corner of personal
dust & distrust
and they have
such slender hands
that put the noisy
world eventually
to sleep
They want light
They tell stories
in the deep
of my night:
silly man at the foot of the hill,
childhood, love letters
that you never sent
. . . .
Love
is a road
at dawn, foggy and chilly
covered with strange sound
of the sleeping forest:
Where? Where?
Here?
Hold me tight!
She said, I'm cold.
:3/31/05
[morning sun is sticking its head
into my window begging for water]
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